


Disequilibrium

by Iruthb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iruthb/pseuds/Iruthb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been eighteen months since Sherlock Holmes threw himself off the top of St. Barts hospital. John Watson's life is just about returning to normal, he's moving in with his girlfriend and her daughter. Sherlock, on the other hand, has tracked down almost every single part of Moriarty's network... with the exception of Moran. Or, so he thinks. He decides that returning to John's life would do more harm than good, and would damage his relationship with Mary Morstan. Someone else notices that Sherlock is back, however, and acts on his desire for revenge through a more damaging route. Will Sherlock be forced to confess his involvement to John when Alice Morstan gets kidnapped?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Hey, mum sent me around to help you pack."

"Okay, come on in. How is she?"

"Fine, finishing off her dress. Now, apparently, the Maid of Honour isn't allowed to see the dress until the day of the wedding either."

Alice glanced around the flat as John Watson let her in. It felt unusually bare: the bookshelves were clear of the books John had never read, the table clear of specimens John didn't care about and the walls were stripped of the diagrams he couldn't decipher. The furniture had been pushed to one side to allow for three piles in the centre of the room. One pile was made of stacked boxes; the things John wanted to keep, to take with him. The second pile was also comprised of stacked boxes, but the contents weren't as carefully put away, and mainly filled with the possessions of John's previous flatmate. Those would be given away to friends and donated. And finally, the third pile comprised of binbags full of things that John didn't care for, or cared too much for. Out of one of the bins protruded part of a deerstalker hat, and Alice vaguely wondered for the thousandth time what kind of a man John's flatmate had been.

John interrupted her thoughts, "I'm just finishing up the last few things in my room, maybe you could start carrying some of the boxes down to the car? Don't injure yourself, though." Alice smiled affectionately and nodded, watching John limping up to his room. Then, with a bracing sigh, she turned back to the piles, trying to decide which box looked least heavy.

After the piles had downsized a bit, and John had emptied his bedroom, they paused for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson came to join them both, with home baked, crisp biscuits. "It's going to be quiet without you," She commented.

John smiled, and patted her shoulder affectionately. "I'll come and visit, but I think you'll appreciate the quiet."

Mrs. Hudson laughed, before adding, "And the hygiene. No more fingers in the microwave."

All three chuckled, including Alice, until it slowly sank exactly what Mrs. Hudson had said. Fingers. Alice's laughter faded, and watching the other two, she noticed how forced their laughter was.

Slowly, silence descended, interrupted by the sound of drinking coffee. No one seemed comfortable making eye contact for more than a second, and Alice couldn't entirely understand why. Eventually, she felt forced to break the silence. "Which room next?" she asked, and John glanced up from the depths of his half filled tea, forcing a half smile.

"There's only one room left," he replied quietly, fixing the smile in place.

Alice understood the pain he was hiding. It was his old flatmate's room

By the time they had finished that room, both John and Alice were feeling awful. John had sat down and pulled out a cigarette, staring into space. His shoulders were rounded as if the entire world rested on his shoulders, and his eyes were listless, devoid of any understandable emotion. Alice, on the other hand, had felt sick. She'd had the misfortune of coming across John's flatmate's skull. Well, not his actual skull, as John had explained after laughing at her disturbed expression, but a skull he had owned. No matter who it had belonged to, Alice had been freaked out, and was much more cautious as she dug her way through the bin bags.

She had, however, learnt a lot about the mysterious man. His name was Sherlock Holmes, and he'd been a consulting detective, which was a job he'd apparently made up. All his possessions had been shoved in bags soon after he'd killed himself, which in itself showed something about the two men's relationship. John clearly hadn't been able to stand the sight of it all, and had gotten angry, thrown everything into bins, not caring what happened to them. Then, when it had come to it, he hadn't been to throw away the bins. He had just shoved them into Sherlock's room. This had, of course, resulted in lots of broken glass lying at the bottom of the bags, and an overall unpleasant experience of packing it away

 _Why had he jumped?_ Alice wondered, as she started carrying a box down to small van they'd hired. She had the sense not to ask, but the question gnawed away at her mind. Mrs. Hudson held open the door for her as Alice stepped outside. The road wasn't especially busy, only a few cars were driving past, and every pedestrian seemed in a hurry. Understandable: the clouds promised a storm, and soon. However, across the street there was a beggar, seemingly unphased by the weather. His clothes were bedraggled, he clearly hadn't shaved in over a month, his cheekbones protruded sharply as if he wasn't eating properly and the bags under his eyes suggested someone who had a fight to pick with sleep. Despite his situation, the man didn't seem that bothered about actually begging. In fact, his eyes were fixed on her. He'd been holding her gaze since she'd noticed him. His pale, inquisitive eyes unnerved her, and Alice looked away, hefting the box into the van. As she opened the door, she had to make way for John carrying his own, significantly larger, box. Before she went back into the house, Alice glanced back to the beggar, only to see an empty pavement. Alice frowned, then shook her head. She had other things to think about, more important things than a bizarre beggar.

Like carrying boxes full of books down tricky staircases. The fifteen year old struggled under the weight of this particular box. It was going to be taken and donated to a charity book shop, but first she had to get it down the stairs. The cardboard was flimsy, and half of Alice expected it to break. Unfortunately, it didn't do that until she got outside, throwing books all over the pavement. Alice cursed as she knelt down, picking up the books. Within seconds she heard someone kneel down behind her, and, surprised, she turned to look at him. It wasn't John or Mrs. Hudson, as she'd expected, but the beggar from across the street. Up close, he looked even worse for wear. Premature lines creased his forhead, and his hands, which were slim and unused to toil for most of their lives, were blistered and mildly scarred. He didn't seem to be intent on stealing the books, which would have been pointless anyway, but he was also refusing to make eye contact.

"Thanks," Alice said quietly. The man looked up, and attempted to smile, but couldn't for some reason. He turned his eyes back to the books in his hands.  
"A Guide to Braille, Coping with Being a Hostage, Drugs and their Effects on the Brain," he read aloud, "most teenagers don't read these kinds of books." The beggar glanced back up at her, his eyes scanning her, reading her like one of the books in his hand.

Alice shook her head, struggling to stand up without dropping all the books she was cradling. "I don't. They belonged to a friend of my mum's fiancé. He, uh, he died. So they're being donated…" she drifted off to silence. The man had stopped listening as soon as she'd mentioned her mum's fiancé.

"Is he, your mum's partner, is he happy?" Now it was Alice's turn to look away,

"I don't think he'll be fully happy for a long time," she replied honestly.

"Alice, can you open the door? My hands are full!" John shouted through the door. Alice put the last book in the van, and turned to open the door. When John had stepped through, carrying a cardboard box, Alice turned back to the beggar. But yet again, he'd gone, left without saying another word. She spun around, trying to spot him, but it was like he'd vanished into thin air.

"Alice, Mary sent me a text saying she'd be here in ten, let's get this finished before she get's here. Alice?" Alice turned on the spot and nodded at John, trying to put the beggar out of her head. But something about his voice, the almost concealed self loathing and guilt in his last question to her, it just kept bugging her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice's curiosity gets the better of her.

**AN: Here's to Chapter two. Thanks Katharine (laterzsherlock) for betaing this within ten hours of me sending it (I sent it at midnight)**

**Quick Note: For people who don't think that teenagers are interested in learning Braille, I learnt it when I was nine (for pokemon games, admittedly, but I still learnt it)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Daily Mail, or Sherlock, or anything you recognise. I do however own Alice, and my rabbit. Not that the rabbit is relevant.**

* * *

"Alice, go to sleep."

Alice flicked off her bedside lamp, counting her mother's footsteps until her bedroom door was out of sight before turning it? on again. It was a trick she'd turned into a science, developed so that she could stay up, reading addictive novels about people who seemed more genuine than the people in her own world. Tonight didn't find her reading one of her novels, but instead one of the two books she had saved from the charity shop. Alice hadn't been able to help herself: she was curious about both the man who had owned them and the contents of the books themselves. Already, she had copied out the entire Braille alphabet, with translations. The book itself wasn't just about teaching sighted people to read in Braille, but it also provided a fascinating history on the invention of the language. The other book was also brilliant; it provided real life accounts of kidnap and how they escaped, outlining techniques and strategies on how to survive and get released, and contained different profiles on what types of kidnapper there were and what their targets were. Alice honestly hadn't even considered that there were a specific type of people that would commit these atrocities. Apart from the fact that they obviously had to have something seriously wrong with them.

At twelve, Alice flicked off the lights, curled up, and dreamt of floating dots warning her about serial rapists.

The next evening, Alice was sat on her bed, fingers resting hesitantly on the keys of her laptop. Internally, her conscience and her curiosity struggled like David and Goliath – that is, her curiosity took one shot at her conscience and it toppled. She opened her browser, opened Google, and typed "Sherlock Holmes"

Biting her lip, Alice clicked on the first link on the page.

_" **RICHARD BROOK DOESN'T EXIST" CLAIMS CO-ACTOR**_

_Six months after the infamous Sherlock Holmes committed suicide and Richard Brook, an actor hired by Holmes to act as his 'arch nemesis', vanished, an anonymous actor claims that Richard Brook never existed._

_Sherlock Holmes was a famous detective who became known through the blog of his colleague, Doctor John Watson. However, potential evidence came to light that Holmes had hired an actor named Richard Brook to perform as his master villain, and planted most of the evidence himself. It was also suggested that Holmes had in fact committed the crimes, and by "solving" them he framed otherwise innocent victims. Just before he was arrested, Holmes escaped, threatening the police with a gun. He later committed suicide._

_An actor who wishes to remain anonymous recently contacted The Daily Mail to bring new evidence to light._

_"I worked on several of the shows that Brook claimed to be a part of, but I never met him, and I knew the entire cast," he informs The Daily Mail, "and he can't have won the award he said he did, as that year I won it."_

_Several investigators searched through the files and discovered that multiple systems had been hacked, and that Richard Brook was never an actor, if he existed at all._

_So, where does this leave us? Was Sherlock Holmes a victim? Or the perpetrator? Was Richard Brook or James Moriarty the fake? What do you think?_

Alice leant back in her seat, a dozen questions running laps in her head. She shouldn't have done this; she shouldn't have gone behind John's back. John had explained that he had been an army doctor, that he'd been shot and that that had caused his limp. He'd even mentioned once or twice that he'd worked on a freelance basis afterwards. Not once, had he mentioned being a detective, or that his flatmate had been accused of something like this. Of course, Alice had occasionally heard mention of a fake genius, but she hadn't really cared what was happening in the news at the time. She glanced at the date of the article. It had been written a year ago. Two months after this, John and her mum had met.

In all the confusion and questions flying around her head, just one floated to the front.

_Poor John._

The rest of week passed surprisingly normally, dragging on while Alice picked up the courage to ask John about Holmes. There were preparations for the wedding which John avoided at all costs, until he got dragged to a fitting room for the last changes to his suit. He fidgeted and blushed as the lady at the shop pinned the clothes close to him. When she'd finally finished, he looked at himself in the mirror, leaning slightly on his metallic walking stick. John struggled to hide the small smile tugging on his lips.

"You look good," Alice observed, having been dragged along by her mother and then being ditched while Mary looked for flower decorations

"Thanks," John replied, his smile increasing, and he stood a little straighter.

"Give us a spin," Alice instructed him teasingly, gesturing with her hands as John shook his head, "come on, please John?"

Blushing a little, and looking very self-conscious, John slowly turned, smiling somewhat indulgently. He did look good: the colour, the cut, the style, it all suited him. He was going to look fantastic on the day, if only he could shake the permanent shadow from his eyes.

The two of them took a rest on a bench before calling a cab. John had treated Alice to a coke and some crisps, while he drank some machine made tea.

After a lull in the conversation, John said, "All right, spit it out."

"Spit what out?"

"You've wanted to ask me about something all week."

"No I haven't."

"Yes, you have," John began, a small sparkle in his eyes, "you've been drumming your fingers and fidgeting a lot; you're clearly anxious or nervous about something, especially around me. You've been biting your lips a lot; you feel guilty and you're trying to restrain yourself from saying something. So, tell me, what is it?"

Alice raised her eyebrows in surprise. She'd known John was smart, but she'd never pegged him for someone very intuitive or especially observant. He watched her, waiting for her to speak.

Alice glanced away from him, staring at her hands as she spoke, "I've just been…curious, about your…flatmate."

"Ah." John fell silent for a second, and Alice looked up. John was staring into space, watching something happen that he couldn't do anything about.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned him. Forget it, -"

"No, it's okay. I'm sure you were thinking about it ever since you helped me move. I'm fairly sure the skull didn't help it either."

Alice hesitated for a few moments, before asking, "What was he like?"

"Brilliant," John began, smiling at a distant memory, "he knew everything about you with a glance, it was unbelievable. If you had something to hide, it must have been terrifying. He had an uncanny memory, but knew nothing about the solar system. Showed up at the Palace once wearing just a sheet, -"

"Wait, what?" Alice interrupted in surprise.

John chuckled before explaining.

* * *

Not too far from where Alice and John were sitting was a ginger haired beggar, who went unnoticed by most, including the chatty duo. He heard every word uttered by them, noticed every postural change, every shift in their intonations. As their conversation moved from Sherlock to Mary and the wedding, there was an obvious deflation in the beggar's stance. John was better off, he thought, safe, in a family. A dull family, with normal habits and normal conversations. He seems happy.

The beggar turned away and left before he could see John and Alice leave, John limping as he hailed a cab.

* * *

**It would be really cool if people would review this, because I like reviews.**

**Next chapter will start seeing things from other people's perspective. I want to get some Sherlockian deductions in here.**

**I also have a sideblog, which is written from Alice's perspective. Not everything in here will appear on there, and not everything on there will go in here. It's Alicemorstan on tumblr.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start going disastruously wrong

* * *

"What do you think?"  
"Moran, again," Sherlock replied, scanning the room. Irene Adler stood in the furthest corner of the room, just observing, while staying as far out of the way as she could.  
The hotel room was basic, revealing very little about its late inhabitant. At least, it seemed that way to Irene. Sherlock disagreed, and had already identified that the victim had two daughters, both under the age of five, a large pedigree cat, and that the man had recently been to Brazil. He also noticed that the bullet had exited the body and had been subsequently collected. The entrance and exit wounds had been carefully tampered so as not to reveal anything about the bullet without an autopsy, which obviously wasn't available to Sherlock.  
As Sherlock examined the victims hands, Irene asked him what he was looking for.  
"Signs of a struggle. There aren't any. No bruises, no skin under the nails, nothing. However, he was conscious, to an extent, when he was shot. He must have been drugged, and recently, probably with a paralytic, such as Mivacurium Chloride, the same as the other victims. He's yet to make a mistake. We need to go before Scotland Yard gets here."

Twenty minutes later, both Irene and Sherlock were shedding the protective clothing that stopped them leaving any trace at the crime scene; as both of them were supposed to be dead, it would raise far too many questions. Irene's current landlord wasn't too bothered about who they were, as long as the money came through. Sherlock was frowning ever so slightly.  
"Where were you yesterday?" Irene asked.  
"In the park, admiring the scenery," Sherlock replied calmly, sitting down on the cream sofa.  
"Sherlock Holmes, admiring the scenery? Was the world ending?" Sherlock gave Irene a look telling her not to be so ridiculous. Irene's face softened with understanding as she comprehended what the real reason was. Sherlock turned away from her, looking out the window, unwilling to talk about it. "How is he?" she asked regardless.  
"Fine. He's met a woman who has a daughter. They're engaged. He has moved on, and probably wouldn't appreciate me walking back into his life, opening old wounds."  
Irene had no reply to that. Silently, they both watched the postman park his car outside and deliver post to their landlord.

* * *

When the final bell rang, Alice packed her bag slowly, hovering around at the back of the class as everyone else hurried off to their hectic social lives. Alice's only plans for the evening were homework and a Torchwood marathon. She was trying to remember which bus would be easiest for her to catch when she got a text. The number was blocked, and the text asked "Would you like a game of chess?" Alice frowned in confusion. She did play chess, and was very good, but never professionally, and very few of her friends enjoyed the game.  
"Who is this?"  
No reply was forthcoming, so, pushing it from her mind, Alice caught a bus home.

* * *

"Neitha o' you are a Sherlock 'Olmes, are ya? Got a funny parcel in the post jus' now."  
Both Irene and Sherlock looked up in surprise. Irene had been texting, her phone resting in the palm of her hands, while Sherlock had been running a check on his mind palace, ensuring everything was in the correct place. Neither had noticed the landlord entering the flat. Irene, thinking quickly, answered, "It's a nickname for Alex here. An inside joke between friends." Sherlock nodded, agreeing with her cover story as he stood up, elegantly striding over to the shorter man. His breath stank of coffee and cheap cigarettes, and he frowned uncertainly at Sherlock before handing over the parcel. Without uttering a word of thanks he returned to his seat, weighing up the parcel in his hands. After a few moments, without glancing back up at the old man, Sherlock commented "Well, don't you have anything else to do other than to ogle at me? Shoo!"  
Irene mouthed an apology as she shooed the man out of the flat. He looked irritated, understandably, but both of them had more important things to worry about than an upset landlord. Barely anyone knew Sherlock was alive, and even fewer were aware of his current location. And none would send him a parcel using his real name.

* * *

Alice stepped off the bus, and continued down the road. A navy blue car pulled up with darkly tinted glass, and she automatically pulled her bag closer. There weren't many other pedestrians nearby, and the other cars were driving too fast to notice anything off. The driver rolled down his window, and smiled sheepishly. Alice automatically relaxed, even though she felt somewhat uneasy. His hair was a bit of a mess, his dark eyes warm and welcoming, if somewhat crazy.  
"I'm slightly lost, can you help me?" he asked, speaking softly with an Irish accent.  
Alice nodded, assuming he was a tourist.  
"How do I get to Big Ben?"

* * *

Inside the parcel was a single photo of John and Mary strolling down the city centre. Mary was laughing, and John only had eyes for her, but even in the photo his limp was obvious. There was also a letter. It was typed, but Sherlock knew exactly who it was from. He stood up quickly, rushing over to his coat and scarf.  
Irene barely had a chance to read the letter before he had left, hurrying to catch a cab.  
She looked back at it, not daring to chase after him.  
"You broke the rules of the game, Sherlock. I warned you. I'll burn the heart out of you. Or rather, out of them."

* * *

"Of course, it's complicated, do you have a map?" Big Ben was miles and miles away, and Alice wondered how this tourist had managed to get so lost.  
"Oh, er, yes!" He pulled out a large book, and flicked through it. Alice leant down to examine it. He'd used a tissue as a book mark. He lifted it out, and lifted it straight to her mouth within a second. Alice gasped sharply, then instantly realised that was a mistake: the air tasted different, sickly and chemical. The edges of her vision were blurring, and Alice threw her hand into her pocket to grab her mobile. It slipped out of her fingers as her vision darkened, and as it clattered out of sight under a parked car, Alice heard the Irish voice again, not as soft as it was before. "Checkmate."

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to act.

Sherlock was staring into space, or, rather, through the window of the cab. Lights and people flew dizzyingly fast, unimportant flecks as the detective read mental timetables, dismissing every ride Alice wouldn’t have taken. Having seen Alice’s uniform, he knew she attended Latymer Upper School, and as she lived in Sand’s End, Sherlock could deduce that after school she would catch two separate buses to get home. That left him with a single bus stop, located next to a supermarket, where she could have been taken, or the full minute walk home. It made more logical sense for her to be taken during the minute from the bus stop to her flat, as it was a less populated area – fewer potential witnesses – and the assailant could drive her away faster.  
That still gave him a full road to investigate, assuming Alice was even the person Moriarty had been talking about.

Barely stopping to glance at the cab driver as Sherlock paid him, he quickly strode across the road. The bus stop was on the opposite side of the street to Alice’s house, but she was sensible and would have crossed straight after getting off the bus, as opposed to walking down the pavement against any traffic before crossing.  
There was little else Sherlock had to go on. His eyes darted back and forth down the street, searching for any indication, any clue of what, if anything, had happened. His eyes zeroed in on the Morstan flat, fifty yards away. It was on the first floor, and although Alice should have returned half an hour previously, the curtains were still drawn, without any lights on.

Sherlock paused, staring at the pavement. Plants were creeping out in between the bricks. Most of them were unimportant, dull. One, however, was fascinating. Sherlock crouched down, pulling out a pocket magnifying glass. He was right: The plant had been stood on, recently. That in itself wasn’t interesting; plants were trampled on every day and meant nothing. However, the plant had been twisted and had been torn a little. Drops of sap oozed out of the tear, suggesting it had happened within the hour. Twisting on the spot like that didn’t happen in a normal walk home.

Suddenly Sherlock knew exactly what had happened. Now, if only he could be certain it was Alice, and no other passerby. His eyes scoured the ground for another sign, an earring or something similar. He frowned, bent down to look under the car nearby. Bingo. A mobile, obviously belonging to a teenager, was lying there, its back lying beside it. Thankfully, the battery was still in place, ensuring that Sherlock wouldn’t have to waste tedious minutes decoding Alice’s PIN. Picking it up with gloved hands, he flicked through the contacts, hovering over John’s number – it hadn’t changed – before calling the police. Precious seconds were wasted before the operator answered.  
Speaking over the top of the operator, Sherlock said “There’s been a kidnapping, Sand’s End, Fulham. 15 year old teenage girl by the name of Alice Morstan, daughter of Miss Mary Morstan”  
“Sir, could you –“  
Sherlock hung up. He had more important things to do than discuss trivialities with the police. Carefully, he replaced the phone exactly it was, although he knew that that tiny detail wouldn’t assist the police how it had him.  
By the time Sherlock had summoned a second cab, he could hear the distant sirens.

* * *

It was the kind of call no one ever wants to receive.  
“Hello?”  
“Mary Morstan? This is Sally Donovan, from Scotland Yard.”  
“That’s my name. What’s the matter?”  
A thousand things could have been the answer, every single one better than the one Mary received. It could have been a speeding ticket, or a credit card scam, or her car being bashed up while parked. 

“Your daughter has been reported missing. Could you please come into the office to confirm some details?”  
Mary froze up. Colour leaked from her face, draining any energy away from her. She knew the statistics, numbers that in the past had meant so little to her. Now, they flooded her mind, cruel, unyielding facts that dragged her away from her office, back sixteen years, into darker, more uncomfortable memories.  
“Mrs. Morstan?”  
“Miss, yes.” The correction was so automatic, so out of the blue, Mary was pulled back into the present with the force of an elastic band, “I’m on my way.”  
A pen, paper, scribbling down an address that was like a safety net, one that promised to bring her daughter back. Quick, out of the office, yell a hurried explanation to her employer as she half ran out the building. Into the car, enter the address into the TomTom, go. Everything was on autopilot, automatic while her brain slowly crunched that six word phrase into pieces of data. The school would have told her if Alice hadn’t arrived that morning, and it wasn’t like the route back was dangerous. Finally, a word, a name, pushed itself forward with an urgency Mary barely understood. Dial the number, wait for the voice mail, he’s working after all. He answers anyway, and his name escaped her lips like a prayer, a lifeline in this havoc.  
“John?”

* * *

John was enjoying a five minute break and was sipping a cup of black coffee with two sugars when his phone began ringing. He frowned at the caller id; Mary knew he was working, so it was odd for her to call him. Nevertheless, he lifted the phone to his ear, looking out the hospital window.

“John?” Mary’s voice sounded desperate, but strangely empty.  
“What’s wrong?” He asked, instinctively tensing up, decades of military service reacting to the tone of her voice.  
There was no response on the other end of the line, but John could hear Mary’s breathing, so he waited, impatiently, for her to explain. His eyes fell on the hospital playground, possibly the saddest part of a hospital. He had only ever seen children in it once before, a girl innocently playing on the monkey bars while her father watched, desperately hiding his tears.  
When Mary finally answered, her voice was taught, as if she was desperate to keep it together.  
“Alice has been reported missing.”  
“On my way,” John replied, reaching for his coat as Mary repeated the address she’d been given. John recognised the place, and grimaced at the memories associated with it. After Sherlock’s fall, Lestrade had frequently come to check up on him, but the visits had dwindled in frequency over the months until three months ago, they’d both just stopped. It was too painful for the two of them, too many memories of an innocent man found guilty.

Once he had arrived, at the police station, almost immediately John bumped into a familiar face.  
“Afternoon, Watson. I’m afraid we no longer have use of your – “ Anderson started, carrying a large pile of documents.  
“Where’s Mary?” He cut the other man off, and Anderson frowned, confusion evident in his face.  
“Sorry, Mary?”  
“Mary Morstan, her daughter was reported kidnapped,”  
“Watson, it is not your job to poke your nose in police business, and – “  
“I live with her you idiot! Now tell me where she is!”  
“…John?” Both John and Anderson looked up at Mary peering out a door way. She was pale, almost white, in stark contrast to her slightly red eyes. Her dark black hair was already messy from her habit of fiddling with it when stressed. Without looking back at Anderson, he walked over to her, his limp almost lost under his purpose. When he embraced her, Mary didn’t crumble into his grip, but she relaxed the tiniest bit into his arms, grateful that he was there.  
Whatever this was, they’d get through it, together.


	5. Chapter 5

There are several types of darkness, and Alice slowly progressed through each one. First came the kind where everything was so dark and silent that the brain shut down, not as restful as sleep, but not as calm as death. The dark faded from her mind, but with the kind of lackadaisical slowness that inspired fear instead of peace. Like that feeling that you know you have to do something but you can’t get out of bed.   
It hit her like a ton of bricks. She wasn’t awake enough to open her eyes, but Alice remembered the strange Irish man and his poisoned tissue. Oh god. The only thing she could hear was the sound of her heart beating, speeding up, less like a pendulum and more like the ticking of a bomb. Or there could be a literal bomb in the room, Alice wasn’t sure anymore. A lump began forming in her throat, and for the first time she recognized the feeling of her hands touching eachother, her arms pulled backwards in awkward angles and her elbows pulled against hard wood. As the adrenaline flushed hot through her entire body, Alice started struggling, gasping air into her body as if she’d been drowning, trying to pull her wrists free.  
It stung. Pain throbbed in her wrists, where whatever it was dug into her skin. Probably metal or plastic, something like that. By this point, Alice was completely on edge, could hear her own blood thundering around in her ears. Any thousand of things could happen, but she didn’t understand why. She was normal. An average teenage girl. There was no way this was happening, not to her. All this was probably a dream, some awful nightmare, and she’d wake up, find herself in her mother’s arms, and it’d be okay. Alice’d fall back asleep and the next thing she would have to do was sit some stupid physics test, instead of spend her time waiting for some creep to do things that Alice really wished she couldn’t imagine.   
Alice recoiled back as light flooded her vision. Somehow, she’d managed to shake off a loosely tied blindfold, and for the first time, she could see exactly where she was.  
A large, empty room, with a single large window. For a sweet second, Alice allowed herself to hope that maybe there was a way out for her, or even for someone to see her, to get help. Reality slapped her hard; beyond the window were several fences, so high that Alice couldn’t see beyond them. So no one would see her, either.   
Now, her heart really was racing. It felt too big for her chest, too heavy. Her ribcage seemed to be suffocating her, tighter and tighter at each turn of breath. Her bones felt unstable, like her spine was going to collapse at any second. And then her eyes locked onto one thing in the entire room that could possibly have calmed her down. A small table with a chess set placed out for a new game stood pretty close to her left, only fully in sight if Alice twisted her head. And funnily enough, this tiny touch of something familiar set her off even worse. There wasn’t enough air in the room to satisfy her needs, it was too thick to flow into her lungs properly. There was the returned feeling of drowning, and it wouldn’t would away, she couldn’t breathe.  
“Take deep breaths,” a deep voice instructed from behind her. Surprising absolutely no one, this did nothing to help Alice calm down. She tried, she really did, forced herself to breathe deeply. After a while, it helped, even though the dread stayed, boiling a hole in her stomach. As muchy as Alice wanted to see who was standing behind her, how he had been so silent for the last… however long she’d been conscious, but she couldn’t get herself to turn her head. It was a vibe, one encouraging her not to do anything stupid like try and look at him.  
Time dragged on, and Alice could do nothing but sit, tears trickling down her face. The voice behind her hadn’t said another word since his initial instructions, hadn’t moved. She couldn’t even hear him breathing. Maybe no one was there. She ddidn’t want to check, so Alice didn’t.  
Finally, the door in front of her opened up, and behind it was a man in a well tailored suit. His eyes were dark, his hair darker, and Alice wanted to scream. It was the tourist.


End file.
